The Gun Fight

I’ve never been near it—the words moved across Robby’s brain but he didn’t speak them. He sat staring at his father, his eyes unblinking, his entire body feeling numbed and dead.

“These men further claim that Benton never fires at a distance of less than thirty feet. So that, I believe you may be able to seize an advantage over him by drawing your weapon at a greater distance. Your accuracy is good enough for that; especially with the better rifling in this—” he gesture toward the gun in the holster, “— weapon.”

Robby swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. No, I’m sorry, he thought, I’m not going to do it. But, again, he said nothing. He sat stiffly, listening to his father plan his life away while, under the table, his nails dug into his palms without him feeling it.

“I believe you’ll find much less in this battle than you expect, sir,” Matthew Coles went on confidently. “John Benton has been away from gunplay a long while. Furthermore, I think we’ve seen ample evidence that he’s lost his nerve. In particular, his attempts to back out of this meeting. Then, of course, there was the time he refused, point-blank, to aid the men of our town in that posse. Yes—” Matthew Coles nodded once, “—it’s clear that the man is no longer what he once was.”

Robby’s throat was petrifying. It came slowly, starting at the bottom and rising as if someone poured cement in his mouth and he kept swallowing it. He shuddered, his hands twitching in his lap.

“As to having the issue settled in the town rather than out of it, well, I believe you can understand that. This entire matter can be settled only when the people of the town see that you are willing to defend the honor of your intended bride. They must see it; for the sake of all concerned.”

Silence a moment. Matthew Coles drew out his watch and pressed in the catch. The thinly wrought gold cover sprang open and he looked calmly down at the face. His head nodded once with a curt motion and he closed the watch and put it back into his pocket.

“It’s time,” he said, looking at his son with a sort of pride. “Shall we go, sir?”

Robby didn’t answer. There was something cold and terrible crawling in his stomach as he stared at his father.

“Sir?” asked Matthew Coles.

“I—”

His father stood up with one, unhesitant motion. “Are you ready, sir?” he asked like a general asking his troops if they were ready for suicidal battle.

Robby found himself standing up even though he didn’t want to. He started for the door on numbed legs.

“Your weapon, sir,” Matthew Coles said, his voice slightly acidulous.

“Father, I—”

“Put on your weapon, sir,” Matthew Coles said, calmly.

I’ve got to tell you!—Robby thought in agony of speechless terror. But he found himself moving back to the table on legs that felt like blocks of stone, he saw his hands reaching for the belt.

It weighed a hundred pounds; his shaking hands could hardly lift it.

“Come, sir, there’s no time to waste. We want to be there before three.”

Robby put the gunbelt around his back and fumbled at the buckle. As he did, he stared down at the butt of the new Colt and thought about drawing it against Benton. He thought of walking across the square toward the tall ex-Ranger, of trying to outdraw a man who had killed thirteen outlaws; thirteen men who, themselves, could have outdrawn Robby without trying.

Thirteen!

He couldn’t help it. His fingers went limp suddenly and the unfastened belt and holster thumped loudly on the rug.

“Be careful, will you, a—”

Matthew Coles broke off suddenly his mouth gaping as he stood there staring with incredulous eyes at the tears that were scattering across Robby’s cheeks and listening to the hoarse, shaking sobs his son was trying, in vain, to control.

“What is the meaning of . . . ?” Again, he couldn’t finish. His head moved forward on his shoulders and he peered intently into the twisted face of his son, staring at the trembling lips, the wide, glistening eyes, the quivering chin.

“What is the meaning of this, sir?” he asked, heatedly. “Explain yourself this very—”

“I-I-I c-can’t, I can’t, father! Please, p-lease. I can’t. I . . . j-j-just can’t.”

“What?” The word came slowly from Matthew Coles’ lips, rising with anger.

“I can’t, I c-can’t. He’ll kill me, he’ll k-ill me, father. I’m a-f- fraid.” Robby didn’t even try to brush away the tears that laced across his cheeks and dripped from his chin and jaw.

“Can’t, sir?” Matthew Coles was having trouble adjusting to this. “Can’t? What are you saying to me? There is no question of—”

“I won’t do it!” Robby cried suddenly, his voice cracking. “I won’t! I’m not gonna die f-for nothing!”

His father seemed to swell up before him and Robby stepped back, nervously, a rasping sob in his throat. Matthew Coles looked at him with terrible eyes, his hands twitching at his sides.

“Pick up your weapon, sir,” he said in a slow, menacing voice.

“No . . . n-no,” Robby muttered fearfully, his chest jerking with uncontrolled breaths.

“Pick up your weapon.”

“No. No, I can’t, father, I can’t !”

“You have given your word, sir,” Matthew Coles said, his voice quivering as he repressed the volcano of fury within himself. “You have promised to defend the honor of your intended bride. Everyone is waiting, sir, everyone expects it. Pick up your weapon and we’ll say no more of this.”

Robby backed away another step, shaking his head with little, twitching movements. “No,” he muttered. “No, I . . .”

“Pick up your weapon!” his father shouted, his face growing purple with released fury. He took two quick steps across the rug and clamped his rigid fingers on Robby’s arm. Robby winced as the fingers dug into his flesh. He stood there staring at his father, his head still jerking back and forth, his lips moving as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t.

“You cannot back out of this! This is something you have to do, do you understand! It’s a matter of honor! If you do this thing to me, there will be no place in this house for you! Do you understand that!”

“F-f-father, I—”

“Are you going to pick up that gun and come with me!”

Robby tried to answer, to explain but terror welled over him again and he started to cry harder, his shoulders twitching helplessly, his throat clutched with breathless sobs.

“No!” he cried out and his head snapped to the side suddenly as Matthew Coles’ broad palm drove stunningly against his cheek. The room seemed to blacken for a moment and Robby stumbled back, clutching at his cheek with one hand, his eyes dumb with shock.

“Coward!” his father screamed at him. “Coward, coward, coward! My own son a coward!”

Matthew Coles lurched away toward the hall, his face a mask of near-mad rage. At the doorway, he twisted around.

“When I come back tonight I want you gone! Do you hear me, gone! I don’t want a coward in my house! I won’t have one! Do you understand!”

Robby stood there, shivering without control, staring with blank eyes at his father.

A moment more his father looked at him.

“Swine,” Matthew Coles said through clenched teeth. “Filthy little coward. You should have been a girl, a little girl cooking in the kitchen—hanging on your mother’s apron strings.”

Then Matthew Coles was gone in the hall and Robby heard the front door jerked open.

“By tonight!” he heard his father shout from there. “If you’re still in my house then, I’ll throw you out!”